Tokens of Love
by verisimilitude9
Summary: Four couples. Four relationships which transcend time and distance, defined by the little things that matter most. AU Senshi/Shitennou fic.
1. Postcards

A/N: This is an AU series I wrote a few months ago. Four parts, senshi/shitennou. This part is Minako/Kunzite, if people can't tell.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Somewhat inspired by the song "Sunrise Highway" by Straylight Run.

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* * *

__Six and Ten_

He had barely moved to the neighbourhood two days when she saw him outside, a mutinous expression on his face. She tore through his gloom like the sun through morning clouds, a golden whirlwind from across the street who talked a mile a minute about how she liked to collect pictures of pretty places.

The boy, with storm-coloured eyes older than his years and a crop of pale blond hair, naturally wanted nothing to do with her. Girls had nasty germs, and a heart still raw from a mother's abandonment did not want company.

She wore a silly red bow in her hair and always insisted on sharing the cookies in her lunchbox with him while they rode the school bus together. He got used to her, but that didn't mean that he had to like her or anything. She was named MINA, for one thing. What kind of stupid name was that? AND she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up, which was just sissy.

Then one day he was walking home from Little League practice and it had started to rain. He had just turned onto his street when he heard her voice, high-pitched with distress, as one of his nastier classmates dangled a fat worm in front of her face while the he stomped on the mangled, filthy remains of what was once a pink tutu, tossed in a mud puddle.

He went home with raw knuckles and a bloody nose and the image of worshipful blue eyes branded into his brain. She went home with the satisfying memory of the bully facedown in the mud, a boy's coat with too-long sleeves draped over her shoulders.

* * *

_Twelve and Sixteen_

It was distressing and preposterous to say the least. She knew, theoretically of course, that she was at a delicate age. Those horrid sex education classes twice a week had a lot of information on hormones and puberty and periods and all manner of nastiness. But that didn't excuse it.

The girl made a face at herself in the mirror and set her diary facedown on her bed. The pink-and-yellow cover seemed to mock her with its cheeriness as it lay a few inches away from gangly legs which would be long and slender and pale ivory in a few years.

The blue eyes in the mirror brimmed over with tears for a moment before they were ruthlessly blinked away. He was her friend, someone who should by all rights be a big brother figure, who had lived across the street for almost as long as she could remember. Just because he was sixteen and started to fill out from being on the varsity swim team in his high school and still rarely smiled but when he did OH--- well, that was beside the point!

She had no business developing a crush on him and writing his name all over her diary, in hearts and parentheses, coupled with hers now and again. He had a GIRLFRIEND, anyway. Some snotty-looking sophomore named Elise who wore dark red lipstick and a push-up bra and jeans two sizes too tight. Who always made a point to smirk down at her as though she were a mere baby.

She raised her chin and sniffled. She'd simply throw herself into her dance lessons and stay away from him until this tempestuous age passed, that was all.

* * *

_Fifteen and Nineteen_

The house was emptied; the real estate sign on the front lawn read "Sold".

The young man gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror, tall and broad-shouldered in his naval uniform, and his eyes were shadowed with new and old sorrows. It had been his choice, not his father's, to join the Navy after high school. He'd not been home last Christmas, and had sent postcards of exotic locales back to Dad, and to his oldest friend across the street.

He didn't get news about his father's car accident until it was too late.

He heard the front door open and familiar footsteps down the hall. She always managed to find him in their early hide-and-seek games. Kevin sighed and glanced over his shoulder at her perfect face, luminous with youth, her hair like a shower of sunshine flowing down to her waist, her ballerina limbs golden from summer sun.

And that was another of his problems, not that she had a clue.

"You'll continue to write," she stated. It wasn't posed as a question, but the question of it was visible in her summer-sky eyes. He nodded, and she simply moved in. He found himself enveloped in a tight embrace and the smell of honeysuckle body spray and the tickle of silky blonde hair underneath his chin, and simply absorbed.

"I'll always love you, you know," the words were muffled against his crisp uniform shirt, and he wasn't sure what she meant, exactly. "And I'll never forgive you if you don't take care of yourself. Don't you dare get yourself hurt."

Always and never, such terribly portentous words.

* * *

_Eighteen and Twenty-Two_

His letter didn't arrive until three months after she'd sent hers, and that was to be expected. He still sent postcards when he stopped at more interesting places, but they always took a long time to arrive. She didn't ever know, at any given moment, where he might be.

Letters were rare, because as a Navy SEAL, he had his hands full, and there wasn't often much he could tell her about what he was doing, anyway. But he wrote her two full pages after she told him about being accepted by a New York ballet corps, simple and sincere words. He had always been taciturn, and she savoured every word like chocolate. The creases in the thin, foreign rice paper were ragged from her re-reading, and she knew it was somewhat silly of her to sleep with it under her pillow at night.

He'd probably laugh at her if he knew, but she didn't mind. He didn't laugh enough, in her opinion, and when he did, it changed his face from sternly handsome to something irresistible.

Not that he needed to know that, either.

When she arrived in New York and entered the conservatory for the first time, she carried her dance shoes and leotard in a duffle bag along with a few items for good luck. Meticulously and carefully tucked into the small, zippered compartment on the side of the duffel bag were her old red hair bow, her first pair of ballet slippers, and his letter, where he predicted that he'd see her name up in lights someday.

* * *

_Twenty-Two and Twenty-Six_

The theatre was packed with patrons who bore the sheen of leisurely upper-class polish. The lighted entrance billboard had the name of Mina Angell in her debut as Odette. The program showed a flawless, limber blonde in a graceful arabesque for the black-and-white photograph by her biography.

The crowd had surged to their feet at the end of the ballet when she'd come out to take her bows with the rest of the company, and she had looked stunning in white tulle and full makeup. He could imagine the sweat dampening the back of her neck unseen, the stretches she'd do backstage in between scenes to loosen up aching muscles.

No one told her about the young man who'd sat in the back of the auditorium, because no one had paid any mind to him. Petty Officer Kevin Macauley may have been a decorated Navy SEAL, but he never was one to draw attention towards himself. No one noticed him pass a note along to the stage manager, either, because everyone was busy discussing the performance, the breathtaking grace of the ballerinas, the soaring beauty of Tchaikovsky's music.

That was all right by him, though. The postcard that lay amidst countless bouquets of roses showed the Statue of Liberty. That he had to leave the next morning was more or less expected, but he had given his word that he'd be there.

When he left for his next mission, he carried the photograph of her, clipped from the program, pinned to the inside of his uniform. He didn't know about her tears and prayers when she found the postcard.

* * *

_Twenty-Six and Thirty_

By twenty-six, she'd toured around the world as an internationally acclaimed ballerina, and a part of her would always wonder if he saw the cities that they'd both been to in a different light. She kept a stack of postcards in a shoebox wrapped in gold foil.

The public, not to mention any men who professed an interest in the glamourous dancer, never failed to gain the impression that she was too busy for love. Married to her art, single-minded, unapproachable.

She concluded a nationwide tour with a performance of Sleeping Beauty in California, playing the part of the princess in slumber awaiting true love, and privately wondered if she, too, would be alone and bereft for a hundred years. But then again, he was hardly a prince, now was he?

It was nearing sunrise when she finally returned to the hotel room where she was staying for the night, and she almost didn't notice the envelope pushed under the door. When she opened it with shaking fingers, she saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, directions scribbled on the back.

The dawn's rosy light gleamed around her as she ran, still wearing silk pajama pants and ballet shoes, all nerves and golden hair. East towards the sunrise, left on the avenue, right at the first stoplight...

And there he was, his face darkened by days in unrelenting sun, the thin white tail of a scar disappearing underneath his open shirt collar. Tall, broad-shouldered, still stern and unsmiling, and the tears blinded her before she could see clearly into his eyes.

But he caught her up in his arms as though he'd been waiting all his life to do so, lifting her up off her feet, platinum hair drifting together with gold, and neither of them knew who initiated the kiss, which was fierce and almost violent and mind-drugging and perfect. All around them the sky bloomed in golden benediction.

"Kevin, Kevin..." She traced the contours of his face with her fingers, a catch in her voice, "I love you. I told you years ago."

"I remember," his voice was low and rough. "I've been waiting to say it back to you."


	2. Snickers

A/N: Part two, Makoto/Nephrite. Some references to other characters, and some vague and meta references to manga canon if you squint.

Disclaimer: Same as always. On with the fic!

* * *

_Six and Ten_

The school bus was late that morning, and Nick hunched his back against the cold winter wind with a scowl. It was bad enough that they weren't getting a snow day because of the weather. He didn't have a problem with snow, unless it meant that he would be confined to the schoolroom for classes AND indoor recess.

And then, the bus was late, and there wasn't even anyone to talk to here at the bus stop except for the little girl in first grade, and who wanted to do THAT? Nick supposed that she was all right as far as girls went, since she didn't try to talk to him about Barbies and stuff, but it wasn't as though they could be friends or anything.

She gave a loud sniffle next to him, and his scowl deepened as he glanced at her. She was wearing a green parka with pink trim that looked faded and just a bit too small, but her hands were red and raw from the wind. There was no sign of the bus yet.

With a very put-upon sigh, he trudged a few steps closer. "Why don't you have gloves?"

"We couldn't buy any," she said candidly, and through the hood of the parka he could make out wisps of chestnut hair a few shades lighter than his own. "Mommy needed the money for groceries. She was hoping it was not going to be so cold."

To Nicholas Lennox, whose father was the manager of the local bank and whose mother paid the salon lady forty dollars every week to do her nails, this was practically unheard of. He thought about the cans of pork and beans he took from the pantry to donate to poor people before Thanksgiving, and how his teacher said that all the food would go to a kitchen somewhere. But it had never occurred to him that anyone who rode the same school bus as him could be poor. He wanted to ask her where she lived, but he was technically a stranger to her, so she probably wouldn't answer.

Gruffly, he pulled off his mittens, which were kind of old anyway. Green woolen yarn and far too big for her chapped hands, but they'd be better than nothing. "Here, you can have these, I guess. I'll just tell my mom they were tore up."

She stared up at him with owlish eyes as green as the wool, and then she smiled, cheeks pinkening with pleasure. He stuck his now-cold hands in his pockets and shrugged with the native nonchalance of a boy and didn't think of it again as the school bus finally pulled up.

The day before Christmas vacation she jogged up to him at the bus stop and handed him a king-sized Snickers bar, blurting out thanks. He didn't know that she had saved up her meager allowance for three weeks to buy it for him.

* * *

_Ten and Fourteen_

Makayla Estrellita Brown, named after her mother but called 'Lita for short, aged ten and a half, had no tears left to cry.

It was a week ago that she got on a plane, on her way back home from a trip to Florida that her mom saved for two years to afford. She remembered the plane starting to shake about halfway back home, oxygen masks being lowered, and then the grip of her mother's hand in hers. After that it was nothing, and she awoke in a hospital, clutching a broken music box which she had bought at Disneyworld, which had played a song from Sleeping Beauty.

She knew that her mother was dead as soon as she saw the doctor's weary, saddened face the afternoon that she awoke. When they tried to talk to her, she'd turned her face away, and it was only at night, when the lights were turned down, that the tears finally came in a torrent. The nurse who came to check on her brought her a box of tissues, and those were used up by sunrise.

She cried for two days as those around her searched for next of kin and made arrangements on her behalf, numb to the poking and prodding and checking of the hospital staff. She listened mechanically as social services told her that she would be moving to Maryland to live with an aunt that she had never met.

There was a knock on her door, and that made her look up, because the doctors and nurses never knocked. She tried but couldn't quite muster up a smile as a dark-haired boy in worn jeans shuffled in.

"Hey," Nick greeted her awkwardly, wincing at the IV still attached to her arm and the cast on her foot. "I thought I'd come and see how you were doing. I heard from my mom that you're moving when you get out of here, and stuff."

Her throat was too raw from crying to speak much, so she let him do the talking, and listened as he retold the details of sports camp and how his dog had an unfortunate run-in with a skunk a few nights ago. He didn't think of her as a girl, really, and that was probably why he treated her like a friend, so she didn't mind.

"Oh, and since you're hurt still, my mom said that we should bring you a present. It's a girl present, and I picked it out, so hopefully you don't hate it." He dug into his pocket, and came out with one of those small white velvet boxes that came from jewelry stores, and seeing the mess of tubes and machines around her bed, opened it himself. Nestled against the white satin was a pair of earrings shaped like pink rosebuds, and she had never seen anything so pretty. "I guess you can put them on when you're better."

"Thank you," she whispered, and was shocked to find tears spring to her eyes, shocked that she still had some left.

"Oh, and I got you a Snickers bar, since hospital food is the pits." He took a slightly squashed vending machine product out of the other pocket and placed it next to the earrings on the nightstand, and her tears ran over. "Oh, hey, are you hurting? NURSE! I think she's in pain!" He hollered that out the hallway, and the moment was lost.

She was hurting, but not like he thought.

* * *

_Seventeen and Twenty-One_

He'd never been to the diner before. Nick Lennox was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and would have happily killed someone for a cup of fresh coffee, and after two consecutive weeks of fast food, he found himself making his way into the first sit-down restaurant open at this particular hour. The building was small, white-washed walls glowing softly in the streetlights.

The door opened with a musical jingle of silver bells, and the warm scents of chocolate and coffee and fresh-baked bread wafted towards him like a note of welcome. The forest-green booths were filled, but there were a few open stools at the counter.

"Good evening," a warm female voice greeted him, friendly but not too chipper. The waitress was tall and curvy, lush auburn curls pulled into a ponytail, a white apron over jeans and a green t-shirt that showed off toned arms and an excellent figure. There was something familiar about her that he couldn't quite place, but she set down a cup of fresh coffee in front of him before he'd even asked, and for that alone, he made a mental note to leave her a tip large enough to embarrass her.

"What's good here?" he asked, his mind still somewhat stuck on criminal justice terminology for the exam he'd been studying for all evening.

"Oh, that all depends on what you want, honey," she told him. "You look exhausted. Why don't I bring you a brownie-- I just made a batch today, on the house-- and you can nibble on that as you look over the menu."

He was amenable to this plan, and when he tasted the distinctive mixture of caramel and nougat and peanuts in the chocolatey confection, he stared. "Lita Brown?!"

The waitress's nametag read "Makayla", but her head swiveled around at the exclamation, and as soon as she finished refilling another patron's water glass, she hurried over. He caught the glint of pink rosebuds at her earlobes, and suddenly grinned ear to ear. "I'll be damned. Snicker brownies, huh?"

"Oh my God!" She all but bowled him over in her enthusiasm as she hugged him, and he had a moment's uncomfortable realization that she was as grown-up as he was as his body was pressed up against feminine curves. "Nick Lennox! What in the world are you doing here?"

"College student," he answered, reaching out and tugging on a lock of her hair. "Criminal justice, at American University." The conversation should have been far more awkward for those who've been out of touch for years.

She ended up staying two hours after her shift was over and sitting with him as he scarfed down a plate of excellent spaghetti and meatballs, talking about everything and anything, and when he finally left, he felt more energized than he had in days. It was the food, he told himself. He'd have to eat there at least once a week.

* * *

_Twenty-One and Twenty-Five_

It was all over the news. Even now, in this quiet hospital room with the lights dimmed and the television on mute, she could see the footage of what had happened two days ago when a gunman had emerged from a crowd and opened fire towards the President's family. It had been a failed assassination attempt, to be sure, as countersnipers from the Secret Service picked the would-be killer off before he could get more than two shots in.

Darien Shields, twenty-year-old son to the President, would have taken two bullets to the chest had his Secret Service detail not pushed him out of the way.

As it stood, his bodyguard took them instead, and the man whose identity was kept anonymous for security reasons was considered a hero.

Lita didn't care about heroism just about then as she sat numbly in the uncomfortable chair in the hospital room, bleak green eyes focused on the motionless young man on the bed. Nick Lennox may have been a hero, but Lita felt no pride over it. The surgeon had been hopeful-- the bullets had miraculously missed his heart, he had youth and a good constitution on his side, and his prognosis was good for a full recovery. But there was something wrenching in her chest that just would not settle, a sudden knowledge that she might be about to lose another person she loved, and she wasn't sure she could stand it.

The sound of a throat clearing broke through her thoughts, and she looked up to see a tall, handsome young man with locks of raven hair falling into lake-blue eyes. He was casually dressed in faded jeans and a Princeton University sweatshirt, and offered a hand with a surprisingly boyish grin. "Lita, right? I'm Darien Shields."

Her eyes widened, and she stuttered something, likely a how-do-you-do, as her hand was shaken firmly and warmly. Darien sat down in the chair next to hers, and glanced, too, at the man on the bed.

"My father's only been in office for a year, you know," he murmured. "I'm still getting used to being tailed when I'm out on a date with my girlfriend. Once I tried to sneak out, but Nick caught up with me before I could get very far at all. I thought he'd be mad and give Serena and I a hard time, but he just pulled me aside and said that if I loved her enough, I'd want to stay alive for her." The lake-blue eyes, a few shades darker than Nick's own, sobered behind a fringe of inky lashes. "Still, I never expected that anyone would take a bullet for me like that."

Something incongruously occurred to her just then, as she had registered at the reception desk as Makayla Brown. "How did you know who I was?"

"Oh, Nick had mentioned you before," Darien grinned for a moment. "He was a friend, you know. Not just a bodyguard. He'd told me that his girl had killer legs and baked the best brownies in existence."

She swallowed, and felt what was left of her composure deserting her as he gestured to a covered baking pan on the table next to the bag of Nick's personal effects. Standing, she tried for a smile. "That's nice. I... I have to go. I have to go to work."

Ignoring Darien's expression of concern, she stumbled blindly out the door past a half-dozen Secret Service agents and gave into her tears after the hospital elevator doors closed behind her.

* * *

_Twenty-Four and Twenty-Eight_

"So. You were with the Secret Service, finished out President Shields' first term, and then retired to a slightly less political and dangerous lifestyle," The blonde ballerina in the backseat of the silver sedan was systematically working out a cramp in her calf, as was her habit after performances. Simultaneously, she chattered on to him about anything that might have come into her mind, which also seemed to be a habit. "Well, I doubt that driving me around is going to be quite so exciting, and I don't think I know of anyone who'd possibly want to shoot at me."

"I would hope not," Nick replied as he braked the car at a red light. Mina Angell was a few years younger than him, and one of the most famous ballerinas in the world. She was reputed to be fiercely disciplined and single-minded about her art, which was just fine for him when he took on the contract of being her bodyguard while she toured the country. He had not expected to befriend her.

"So what do you like to do in your spare time? I collect postcards," she told him as they pulled up to the hotel where she would be staying that evening. Her voice took on a wistful note for a moment. "Someone I know sends me postcards whenever he sees a new city, and he sees plenty, as he's in the Navy."

Perhaps not so single-minded after all, Nick mused as he handed the keys of the car to the valet and went to open Mina's door. She was limping slightly, as was custom after performances, and he supported her as he led her towards the elevators. "I read sometimes. Studying up on Greek mythology at the moment. Go the the gym. Watch football games and the usual guy stuff, I guess."

Mina gave him a shrewd, sidelong look as he escorted her to her room. "And think about that special girl, whom you've probably not seen in ages, whom you always think about visiting but there never seems to be the perfect time... am I right?" She laughed lightly at his expression, and patted his arm. "Like recognizes like, honey."

He busied himself, methodically checking her room for cameras, bugs and signs of security hazards, before trusting his voice to reply. "I've known her since we were kids. We keep in touch occasionally-- I travel a lot, and I don't think she'd ever go on an airplane again after... well, let's just say she's got a fear of flying. She's just opened her own restaurant in Maryland. She's a hell of a cook."

"Ugh... don't talk about food to me, not when my choreographer's a despot and I don't think I've had a proper honest-to-goodness cheeseburger in three years," Mina wrinkled her pert nose. "But... hmmmm. Where in Maryland?"

"Baltimore area," Nick answered laconically. "Well, enough about that, I guess. You should probably get some sleep. We'll be flying to Boston tomorrow. I'll see myself out."

"Sure thing," Mina smiled sweetly at him and threw herself full-length on the bed. "Just as soon as I make a few phone calls."

* * *

_Twenty-Five and Twenty-Nine_

Lita's was a quaint little cafe of a restaurant which exuded an atmosphere of peace and life. The window ledges bore sturdy terra-cotta pots of blooming African violets and marigolds, and baskets of hanging plants with leaves in every shade of green hung from the ceiling. The small, round tables each bore vasefuls of brightly coloured cut-flowers. Pink carnations, golden daffodils, crimson poppies, pale blue delphiniums. The wait staff was quick and efficient, hand-picked carefully by the owner, and the desserts (perfectly paired with excellent cappuccinos) were superb.

Lita Brown, wearing forest green baking mitts a few sizes too big and worn from extensive use, carried a steaming pan of Snickers brownies from the oven to a counter for cooling, and barely glanced up as one of her waitresses dashed into the kitchen.

"Hey, boss, here's the mail." Avery Parker held a small stack of envelopes in one hand, a tray in the other, balanced with the efficiency of long practice. "I need two bowls of chicken tortilla soup, one of minestrone, a Greek salad extra olives, and a Reuben, hold the dressing."

Working in tandem with Avery, Lita filled orders and checked on the batch of apple turnovers she had baking in the oven. Satisfied that everything was as it was supposed to be, she took a glance at the pile of mail as Avery set steaming bowls of soup onto plates and added packets of oyster crackers. Two bills, the newspaper, a circular from a food supply company, and an unmarked, unsealed white envelope. Curiously, she opened it and found a pair of tickets to the Sleeping Beauty ballet inside, along with a note.

"Come on out, and bring a brownie with you."

Avery was grinning from ear to ear. "There's someone out there, he told me not to say anything. Really, really cute, Lita. Tall and built, and all this chocolatey brown hair." But Lita, by then, was already striding out of the kitchen.

At a table in the corner, a lone man sat, sipping a cup of coffee. He stood up when Lita came out of the kitchen, and caught her as she threw herself into his arms. She was vaguely aware of catcalls and applause as his mouth found hers, but couldn't care less just at the moment. Her fingers tangled into his hair-- longer than she remembered, and she heard him chuckle against her lips before he pulled back to look into her eyes.

"A friend gave me tickets... said that it was high time I took you out on a real date," he said, reaching out and tucking a strand of her hair behind an ear adorned with a rosebud earring. "Where's my brownie?"


	3. Strawberry Bubblegum

A/N: Part Three, Ami/Zoisite. Nothing else of note except that seeing as to it's Zoisite and he's a little drama queen, one swear word and one instance of drunkenness.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, as usual.

* * *

_Five and Eight_

Of course he'd overheard his mother and some of her friends talk about the new people who moved into the penthouse apartment suite two floors up. A lady doctor who probably had scads of money who recently got a divorce, and a little girl a bit younger than himself. Not that he really cared a whit, because girls were yucky and rich people were mean. The old battle axe who'd lived in the penthouse before was named Maxine and owned three obnoxious poodles and wore garish pink lipstick and glared at him every time she saw him.

So it was a matter of course, when he saw the little girl for the first time, to spring out at her and yell "BOO!", then laugh when she stumbled on the steps, fell, and tore her neat white tights at the knee.

But when she simply picked herself up without a word instead of crying and hollering like a sissy, he had the uncomfortable sensation that he'd find it difficult to pick on her. There was a small smear of blood against the now-grimy white nylon of her tights. She shot him a blue-eyed glare full of disdain and reproach as she dusted herself off, and he felt like a jerk.

She'd flounced back up the stairs and was up two flights before he caught up with her, sandy hair mussed and damp from running, and gruffly pushed the pack of strawberry bubblegum-- minus two pieces, which he'd bought just that day with his allowance-- into her surprised hands as a peace offering.

"I'm Zach O'Connor. Sorry."

Maybe it was that particular word, or maybe it was the bubblegum. But in either case, she stopped looking so mad, and gave him a faint smile which showed a hint of dimples. "I'm Amy Anderson. It's okay."

* * *

_Eight and Eleven_

All of her things were packed, and the somber little girl with the dark blue eyes stood in the lobby of the apartment building, alone amidst a set of luggage. Outside, where there was better reception, her mother was talking to the director of the boarding school for gifted youth on her cell phone.

A gangly, green-eyed boy with his unruly dark-blond hair stuffed under a baseball cap jogged into the lobby, skidding to a halt in front of the girl. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and cleared his throat, and for a moment, she was mortally afraid she'd humiliate herself and embarrass him by crying.

"So, um, you're really going to that fancy school? And you'll get to live there?" Neither of them were old enough to be accustomed to saying goodbye. "That's really weird. My teacher hates us and is glad to be rid of us at the end of the day. If we lived there she'd probably have a heart attack. I thought she would the day Jake super-glued her stapler and all her pencils to her desk."

That got a laugh out of her, which seemed to relax him somewhat. She watched, her heart an odd mix of elation and pain, as he dug deeper into his pocket and turned up a piece of bubblegum in its waxy white wrap. She took it, unwrapped the pink candy, bit into the familiar sweet taste of sugar and strawberry flavouring.

"I'll be home for my birthday," she told him, blowing a bubble. She could never blow those huge ones that he did, but then again, she'd also had to peel bubblegum bits off her eyelashes like he did the once, either.

"I'll get you something cool, promise." Holding out a hand, he spat in the palm, a solemn seal to a solemn promise, and she mirrored the movement, delighted at the very absurdity and childishness of it. They shook on it.

* * *

_Nine and Twelve_

But when September 10th rolled around, no one came to pick her up from her school, and in the privacy of her room, she cried herself to sleep. The next day, though, she received an overnight mail parcel containing a whole box of bubblegum, a book of optical illusions and a tarnished silver dollar that she recognized as his particular favourite good luck charm. None of the other students understood how she could possibly prefer Bubblelicious and a grimy old coin to the too-showy diamond earrings from a father she barely remembered.

When Christmas rolled around that year, she sent him a carefully selected card, every inch of blank space around the printed greetings filled with anecdotes of the last few months. And then, when the card got returned a month later, with the words "Return to Sender: Recipient No Longer At Address Below" scrawled on the envelope, she felt something inside of her wink out like a gutted candle.

She left the better part of a pack of bubblegum lying out in the Common Room and it was gone by next morning; among decorous little geniuses in a strictly controlled environment, it was top contraband.

Later that day she watched as one of the other girls got in trouble for chewing gum in Latin class and was made to copy twenty pages of Virgil after class for punishment, and thought of Aeneas embarking on his travels and leaving Dido behind, and didn't say anything.

* * *

_Fifteen and Eighteen_

Zachary O'Connor, refusing to fall into the typical freshman trap of being tardy for classes until he knew his way around, made it into his Classics lecture with ten minutes to spare, and found the lecture hall all but deserted. Holding a near-empty styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of books in the other, he scoped for a seat, and inquisitive green eyes landed on a bob of sleek dark hair close to the front. There was something familiar about the girl that he couldn't quite place.

"Hey," he called out from the end of the aisle, pasting a friendly smile on his face. "Mind if I sit with you, sweetheart?"

Wide blue eyes looked up from her book, and her mouth fell open in shock. She was petite, adorable, wearing dark denim shorts and wire-frame glasses which did nothing but magnify the luxuriant fringes of long eyelashes. And then she let out a yelp as he heedlessly threw the coffee cup onto the ground, yanked her up from her seat and twirled her up in a circle.

"Oh my God! Son of a bitch! Amy Anderson? What in the hell are you doing here?" He manfully paid almost no mind to the slender legs shown to excellent advantage by the shorts.

"Going to school," she managed in a slightly strangled voice. "Starting college, much like you. I didn't know you were a student here."

"Always a brainiac, starting college at fifteen," he reached out and ruffled her hair, his grin all but splitting his face. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, huh? So, how have you been? We moved to the West Coast after my dad got transferred for work. We will definitely have to catch up after class, get a coffee or something. Want some gum?"

She had not chewed gum in several years, but popped a piece of it into her mouth just before the professor came into the room, and there was something rather like promise and possibility in the smile that flitted across her lips.

* * *

_Nineteen and Twenty-Two_

"I don't know how I ever managed to live without you," the tall, wiry young man bear-hugged the slim young woman from behind and pressed a noisy kiss to the side of her neck. He had the sweet, endearing smile of the inebriated, and leaned heavily on her as they walked down the street.

"Just fine, I'm sure," she said calmly and coolly. He should, by all rights, smell like cigarette smoke and cheap beer from sitting in the bar all night. She should, by all rights, be appalled by his behaviour and furious that she'd been woken up by something as mundane as someone drunk-dialing her. "Do you know how insensible it is to drown your sorrows just because Marlena cheated on you?"

"Yes, I know," he sighed, and almost lost his footing as she steered him around a corner. "You told me that she was no good for me, didn't you? You're so smart, Amy. I love that about you."

She allowed herself an ironic smile, but he was too drunk and blind to notice the bitterness in it. "Of course you do," she sighed as she stopped to open the passenger door of her car. "In you go. Stick your head out of the window if you need to throw up."

"So cute, too," he beamed, wrapping his arm unsteadily around her shoulders and giving a squeeze. "Particularly when you're mad. Your lips twist into this prissy little pout. It's all I can do to try to keep myself from kissing you sometimes. You probably taste like strawberry bubblegum."

She glared at nothing in particular as she pulled the car into reverse and backed out of the parking lot, driving in stony silence towards his apartment. Mechanically and with a ruthless efficiency, she parked the car, pulled him out, and tugged him through the door of the building. With unerring fingers, she dug his keys out of his jacket pocket, yanked him into his apartment, and pushed him down into a seat. "Make sure you drink some juice before bed," she said in an awfully polite voice as she bustled around in his kitchen. He was quiet and pensive when she helped him into his bed.

"Amy," His voice was soft, and when she glanced over his shoulder, his eyes were intense and almost sober. "You mean much more to me than anything."

Her fingers trembled over the doorknob of his bedroom and two tears splashed unseen onto the short-napped carpet. "Zach," she whispered, her gaze focused on her shoes, "I'm leaving."

He woke up in the morning to find a pack of gum on his nightstand next to a thermos of still-warm coffee and a bottle of aspirin. He had no memory of her saying goodbye. Two days later she boarded a plane headed east towards the country's most prestigious medical school.

* * *

_Twenty-Five and Twenty-Eight_

A six-year-old with the chicken pox was commonplace enough in her line of work, but pale, pixie-like Evelyn Lane stared at her with deep brown eyes too old and somber for such a little girl. Dr. Amy Anderson, the youngest physician in the hospital's pediatric ward, smiled at the quiet girl and handed her a lollipop before exiting the examination room to have a word with the girl's parents about proper care.

No one could have predicted the meeting, and in the space of an instant, a myriad emotions crossed the handsome, almost poetic face of the young man sitting in the waiting room.

"Amy?" He rose, long legs eating up the length of the floor in a moment as he reached for her hands. "I can't believe it's you."

She no longer wore glasses, and he'd never imagined powder-blue scrubs to look sexy on anyone before, but then again, there had never been anyone else like her in all of his life. Her voice was cool as water, undeniably soothing, but there was something unsettled in the depths of her ocean-coloured eyes which gave him an odd sense of hope. "Is Evelyn your... did you bring her in?"

"A client's," he answered with a smile somewhat lacking its usual cheer. "I'm a lawyer. I'm handling her mother's divorce. Mrs. Lane is in another part of your hospital with a broken leg and a black eye from the last fight she had with her husband. Evelyn's teacher called my cell when the kid broke out with the chicken pox, because there's no other number to call at the moment."

"Oh," her voice was soft with heartbreak and empathy, and the hands caught in his squeezed for a moment before she lifted those incredibly beautiful blue eyes to his. "Well. I should probably tell you about her care. She has a place to stay, right?"

He nodded, and listened as she gave him a few basic instructions before following her into the examination room to pick up the little girl. Amy lifted Evelyn up and handed her to Zach, and watched as the girl wrapped a small, red-spotted hand around his silk tie to secure herself as she curled up in his arms.

"What do you have there in your mouth, Evie? Smells good."

"Strawberry blow pop," Evelyn answered, giving him a tremulous smile not yet quite trusting, but getting there. "I got another one for later, from Doctor Amy. You can have it."

He unwrapped it and gave it a lick, tasting sugar and strawberry flavour, but kept his eyes on Amy's. "Full circle," he whispered, reaching out and pulling her close before she could step back. "For God's sake, I should have done this ages ago."

He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her lips, and the taste was as sweet as a dream, familiar as destiny. Her hand trembled as he pulled away, and her cheeks were pink. He grinned, feeling happier than he could remember being for a long time, and hitched little Evelyn higher on his hip.

"We'll be back tomorrow to see you."

After a moment, she smiled back at him. "I'll be here."


	4. Casablancas

A/N: Part the last, Rei/Jadeite. Huzzah!

Disclaimer: Still own nothing. Obviously.

* * *

_Two and Five_

He could just barely see the reflection of her smile in the rearview mirror. It was the slow, deep smile of a woman who understood things without explanations, and it illuminated her beautiful face like candlelight on alabaster. Jake Larsen, aged five and suspicious, snuck another glance at her face before taking in the rest of his surroundings.

"How are you feeling, honey?" Ariel Hamilton certainly looked the part of the polished, elegant wife of an up-and-coming senator, but she preferred to spend her time working for peanuts as a social worker. There was something about the blue-eyed blond who had nearly perished in the fire caused by his drug-addicted mother's carelessness which tugged at her heart even more than usual, an unshakable feeling that his life would be tied with hers somehow. She'd gone through reams of paperwork before finding him the perfect foster family, and Ariel was determined to work together with them to help him heal emotionally.

Jake simply shrugged in response, and turned his attention to the huge bouquet of elegant white flowers on his right. They smelled clean and rich and sweet, and the scent calmed his nerves somewhat. "What are those?"

"Casablanca lilies," Ariel answered, driving competently through traffic. She laughed, and the orphaned boy heard a strange note of loneliness. "It's my little girl's birthday today, and her father had his assistant send flowers to us. I guess to encourage her to grow up as pretty as possible."

Jake glanced at the baby car-seat on his other side and eyed the sleeping toddler with critical eyes. Ms. Hamilton's daughter was named Raeanne Louisa Hamilton but he knew that her mother called her Raye. At the moment, she was quiet, dark eyelashes resting on smooth cheeks, silk-fine raven hair put in braids with red ribbons. "She looks okay, I guess," he pronounced. At that moment, the two-year-old chose to awaken, and he found himself staring into fathomless violet eyes for the space of three heartbeats. Slowly, Raye's lips curved into a smile which would someday be just like her mother's.

"Friends! Flowers for me!" It was spoken almost as a demand and Jake would have laughed if he were more accustomed to doing so. As it was, he simply reached over, plucked one of the lilies out of the bouquet and handed it to the little girl.

* * *

_Ten and Thirteen_

She knew, really, that she was getting too old to play on swingsets. Ten years old, and she'd be off to the prestigious all-girl's private school next year, but Raye Hamilton couldn't quite bring herself to care about her image just at the moment. It would have been her mother's birthday today had she not died from cancer four months ago, and already her father was engaged to someone else.

The day was a beautiful one, with cloudless blue skies overhead and the barest caress of a summer breeze, and the others in the park were too busy having fun to pay any mind to the raven-haired girl seated on the curved black seat of the swing, tears falling to dew the pristine petals of the single white flower she held in one hand.

"Watch out!" came a boy's warning shout, and she ducked just in time as a soccer ball whizzed past her head. Sneakered feet scuffled through the scrubby grass and sand, and she just managed to compose herself before a skinny blond in frayed jeans stopped close to her to retrieve the ball.

"Hey, I didn't hit you, did I?" He must have noticed some remnant of tears on her face, because he stopped awkwardly in front of her, ball tucked under one arm, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "You okay?"

"Just watch where you're kicking it." She tried for hauteur, but couldn't quite pull it off, and dropped her gaze from his blue eyes to the flower still held in one hand.

"Hey, that's a Casablanca lily, isn't it?" he asked, pointing, and that had her looking back up at him in bemusement, some vague wisp of memory flitting through her mind like the translucent smoke from a dying fire. She nodded. His eyes locked with hers for a moment and he cocked his head to the side as though trying to place her. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so," she murmured, and kicked the ground lightly, rocking her swing with the barest of movements.

"Okay. I'm Jake," he took a step back, and gave her a crooked smile. "Nice to meet you and all. Feel better, whatever it is."

"I will," she said automatically, not sure if she'd mean it, but it was a distraction at least.

* * *

_Sixteen and Nineteen_

The vehicle was a sleek, flashy black Ferrari, and the driver was nothing less than a complete babe, from her waterfall of waist-length raven hair to the scarlet ice-pick heels showcasing endless legs. Jake goggled for a moment from the safety of the garage and didn't come out to greet her until he was almost positive that he wasn't visibly drooling over either the car or the driver. It was the third summer he'd worked at the oil change shop, and he'd never seen the likes of either come through before that day.

"How can I help you today?" he asked pleasantly. The young goddess tipped a pair of Gucci sunglasses up to the top of her head and peered at him with strangely familiar-seeming violet eyes.

"I need an oil change," she answered coolly, glancing at the name embroidered on his grimy work shirt. "You in charge of that-- Jake, is it?"

"I can do that for you, no problem," he answered, walking up to her car. "Nice wheels."

She made a face which would have looked inelegant and immature on anyone else and shrugged her slim shoulders. "My dad is always too busy, and he's a disciple of the one-grand-gesture-solves-everything-from-hangnails-to-nuclear-war school of thought," she said matter-of-factly. "Want me to drive it in, or should I give you a thrill and let you do the honours?"

"Darling, I think I just fell in love with you," he quipped, and the light tone of his voice set her at ease. She handed him the keys, and he took his time to maneuver the car perfectly into position before popping the hood. She had something soft and exotic with pipes and lutes playing on the stereo, and the interior of the car smelled like clean leather and...

"Did you say something?" the girl asked curiously. Jake poked his head back out from under her hood and stared at her for a moment.

"Casablanca lilies," he gestured the bouquet in the passenger seat. "It just reminded me of someone I met in a park once." And, though he didn't mention it, a woman with a slow smile who taught him how to trust.

Now it was her turn to stare, but not for long. With aplomb he admired, her lips curved into a wry grin. "Jake. The name didn't register at first. It was a long time ago. Small world."

It must have been the fastest oil change he'd ever done, and then he sat down next to her, everything else forgotten. "You never told me your name. Or why you were upset."

"Raye Hamilton," she answered steadily, before raising a brow. "And why I was upset is no one's business but mine." She proffered a hand, though, which softened the hard words slightly.

"I'm covered in engine grease and stuff," he said awkwardly, and wiped his hands on his pants before taking hers. "Who got you those lilies?"

"Oh. Some guy at my school," she answered, her tone sounding oddly apologetic. "Wants me to go to prom with him."

He rather thought that he shouldn't have asked, and busied himself in filling out the sticker reminding her to change her oil again after another three thousand miles and affixing it to her sparkling windshield. "They're nice."

"Thank you," she stood up, tipping those sunglasses back down and hiding her eyes and feelings from view. "How much do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it," he found himself saying, though the difference would be coming out of his own pay. When she made to protest, he shrugged, adopted an indifferent pose. "Think of it as thanks for letting me drive that baby for three seconds." Before she could reply, he walked back into the office, and didn't feel her eyes fixed upon his retreating form. She waited for ten minutes before she got back in her car and drove away.

* * *

_Twenty-Two and Twenty-Five_

She sipped from a snifter of brandy and tried to will her fingers to stop shaking. Certainly, considering the circumstances, visible distress would be expected, but it was simply a matter of principle. When she'd lived most of her life with the knowledge that there was no one she could count on except herself, and that the general populace held the smallest details of a senator's daughter under scrutiny, it was necessary not to let anyone see her at less than her best.

Raeanne Louisa Hamilton, Radcliffe graduate and wealthy socialite, sat bolt upright on one of the Italian silk sofas in her luxurious townhouse and stared at the open, ransacked wall safe, the broken curio cabinet and overturned chairs. Chad Townsend had been an old friend of the family, the son and heir of an oil baron, a cheerful sort who toyed with the idea of being a rock star, and it had not seemed like such a big deal to let him stay in her townhouse while she traveled abroad.

She would never have done it had she known that his father had cut him off from his trust fund. She didn't know about the cocaine habit, which he'd first tried to finance by stealing and pawning her valuables. Those who came looking for him when he owed more than he could pay did a thorough job of trashing her home before killing him.

Steady footsteps broke the silence, and she looked up with a carefully blank face. The detective was young, broad-shouldered and handsome, his blond locks disordered by the rake of his fingers. There was something oddly familiar about him, but in the face of the present circumstances, she didn't think about it. "Do I need to call my lawyer, officer?"

"If you'd like," he said in a voice far gentler than she had expected. "You're not implicated, as you were in Europe at the time of the victim's death, and have no probable motive." He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"You've cause to say that quite often in your line of work, I'm sure," she answered stiffly. "I'm not going to cry about it, don't worry."

"I won't tell if you do," he said quietly. When her hands started to shake, he carefully plucked the brandy snifter out of her grasp and set it down on the coffee table, next to the shattered remains of a Waterford vase. A trampled bouquet of Casablanca lilies lay on the floor in a puddle of water. Her violet eyes brimmed, but she blinked the tears ruthlessly away.

"Chad was an inheritance brat who betrayed my trust," she snapped out, shoulders quivering from tension. "I'll be damned if I cry over him."

Something soft and white was pushed into her hands, and she had one moment to wonder who the hell carried handkerchiefs anymore in this day and age before the dam broke. He didn't say anything, didn't offer those generic empty words of comfort, and that made it so much easier. When she had finally let it all out and blew her nose, no longer giving a hang about looking ladylike, there were streaks of mascara marring her pale cheeks, echoing the smudges on his formerly pristine white shirt. But he made no mention of it, and she wondered how he could know what not to say. Instead, he stood up, gazing down at her with steadfast blue eyes. "Forensics finished in here yesterday, but you'd be better off staying somewhere else until it's over with, for your own safety. Do you have anywhere to go?"

She squared her shoulders, thought for a few moments about what she wanted to do... not just for the next few days, but for the rest of her life. "My grandfather's home. He owns a B&B and lives outside of town. It's about an hour's drive."

"I'll drive you." He offered a hand, a golden, stalwart knight protecting a princess. "Get your things."

* * *

_Twenty-Six and Twenty-Nine_

Sheriff Jake Larsen drove up the lane towards a pretty two-story stone house with a trio of blooming cherry trees on the front lawn. It was one of the best-run, safest and most well-provided domestic violence shelters in the county, run by a former Boston socialite and known as Ariel's House. Raye, in her heart, was her mother's daughter.

He made his way up cobblestone walk and rang the doorbell. An alert, ageless-looking wisp of a woman with birdlike dark eyes and a knot of crimpy black hair opened the door just a crack to peer at his badge before letting him over the threshold. "Can I help you, Sheriff?"

"I'm here to speak to Mrs Cathy Lane."

"Ah, yes," she smiled softly. Her nametag identified her as Phoebe Corvin, the housekeeper. "Please come in and have a seat in the parlour. I'll call her for you."

He followed her through a sunwashed foyer into a sitting room neat as a pin and inherently feminine, from the delicate muslin curtains to the intricately carved rosewood coffee table, polished to a gleam and bearing a crystal vase with spears of stark-white Casablancas. And curled up on a plush armchair, in jeans and bare feet, was Raye, her dark head close to the fair one of a little girl in pink pajamas whose face speckled with red from chicken pox. Both of them were poring over one of Curious George's numerous adventures.

She looked up when he entered, and he saw light spring into her eyes a moment before she smiled. "Sheriff. Don't you have people working for you so that you don't have to run errand boy and come all the way out here to deliver papers to someone?"

"It's my town and they're my people," Jake answered simply. "I'm sure that you, of all people, can understand." They'd remained in touch after the case that had crossed their paths years ago, and he supposed that they were friends. It was slowly killing him, but he had always been good at banking his emotions.

Together, they watched and offered silent support as a mother signed a restraining order which would preclude her ex-husband from contacting her if his family and friends bailed him out of jail. Cathy Lane, her ankle in a cast and a black eye fading on her face, took her daughter back upstairs with her after they were finished. Raye set down the picture book she'd been reading aloud next to the vase of Casablancas.

"Zachary O'Connor's her attorney," she remarked. "I suppose you can contact him with the information."

Jake chuckled at that. Zach O'Connor was one of his oldest friends. "We were supposed to have a few drinks tonight after work, watch the Celtics play the Lakers, but he ditched because he has a hot date. As the woman in question is apparently the love of his life, I'll forgive him."

"Oh." She fingered one of the flowers in the vase, gave him a sidelong look. "I've been known to choke down a martini now and then. And watch sports, once in a great while. Under duress."

Elation sang through his veins and he couldn't stop the grin. "It's supposed to be beer when you're watching a game. I could show you how the whole process works if you're interested."

She laughed, and at seven that evening, he brought her more lilies when he came to pick her up. She wore perfume that smelled like sandalwood and sin, and she made a face every time she took a sip of beer. He bought her a martini, explained the finer points of the game to her, and at the end of the evening, was shocked when she pressed her lips to his for a glorious, endlessly warm kiss at the door.

"It feels like that's been a long time in coming," she murmured, brushing a fingertip over the smear of lipstick she left on his lips. He stared down into her heavy-lidded eyes, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I'd say so," he agreed, and kissed her again.

* * *

[FIN]

Thanks for reading!


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